


Worth the Wait

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Annulment, Biphobia, Divorce, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, M/M, Missy Lestrade has been given too many chances, Multi, Mycroft is a gentleman, greg is faithful, mystrade, slow courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 13:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16854448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: Lestrade is a patient and forgiving man but even he has limits. Mycroft has been biding his time too.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft’s breath huffed out in a soft puff, warm against the back of his neck. It tickled in a pleasant sort of way. 

Greg pulled My’s arm tighter around him, snuggling back into the embrace. He chuckled softly to himself. _I never thought I’d be the little spoon_. Still, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He’d never tire of this. Never take a moment for granted. 

It was hard to believe had the absolute fucking privilege of feeling Mycroft Holmes, this, this brilliant, amazing man actually relax, soft and slumbering around him. Of course soon, whether in a few minutes or a few hours, My would be up averting the next crisis in Libya or Syria or trying to solve whatever the Americans were up to these days, or otherwise, he’d get a call himself, off to catch another criminal. But for now, their phones were as quiet as the house around them and they could enjoy a much needed rest. 

Greg glanced over at the clock. He felt rested already, but it was only 12:06. That was what happened when you fell into bed at 8 after a quick takeaway curry. Well, the falling into bed wasn’t so much the problem as the staying there after. They’d intended to get up again, maybe watch a film, but they’d laid there feeling warm and soft and sated and when My had drifted off there was no damn way Greg was going to get up again.

“Happy Anniversary,” he whispered. 

It still felt like he had won the lottery. Probably always would. He had spent so long thinking love like this was a myth, a fairytale, but these last few years he’d found his own happily ever after and he was never, ever going to let it go.

_How did I ever get so damn lucky?_

\--five years earlier--

 

The auburn haired official in the expensive grey suit approached the table where Lestrade sat filling out a bit of paperwork. The man walked with a confidence and purpose that Lestrade couldn’t help admire, even if such an official on scene was usually a bloody headache.

“Congratulations on cracking the case, Detective Inspector... “ he paused for a moment perusing the badge, “Lestrade. Now get your team ready to clear out.”

“Excuse me?” Lestrade barked, standing up. He wasn’t willing to give up his place in charge of the scene on the case he just solved, simply on some paper pusher’s whim. “Who exactly are you?”

“That’s classified,” the gentleman said, pushing an agreement across the table. 

Lestrade wanted to ask if he was joking, but there was no trace of humour here. He picked up the papers and perused what turned out to be a non-disclosure agreement with regards to the case. Unless it was in the official trial or a session with a lawyer, he wasn’t to talk with anyone, not even other officers that had worked on the case. 

“This is ridiculous,” Lestrade muttered, but he signed. He couldn’t ignore a directive of this magnitude. Then he stalked away to gather his team. They were each called over efficiently to sign agreements of the same kind. 

Lestrade grumbled about the process to Sherlock, who had also been on the scene of this one. This kid was more than half the reason they solved it, if he was honest. He would have a promising future working with the Yard, if they could keep him off the cocaine.

“What do you think of that one,” he said to Sherlock, nodding in the official’s direction.

“Perfectly tailored suit, but a bit tight in the middle. He’s gone soft from years of desk work, but his suits are tailored to conceal that as best they can. Insecure about it, then. Goes running and takes several martial arts, both for protection if needed and to try to combat his love affair with cake.”

Lestrade thought the man wore it well, but he kept that to himself as Sherlock continued. 

“The recent half stone he’s put on show that it isn’t working as well as he’d hoped. He knows he is the most powerful person in the room and wants everyone else to know it, too. The smartest as well, at least he thinks so. He cultivates an air of mystery like some caricature of a villain, but he isn’t actually evil. Mostly pompous.” 

“If _you _think so, that’s saying something,” Lestrade muttered, earning a glare. “All that from the last 5 minutes?”__

__Sherlock broke into a genuine smile, “That and an entire childhood together.”_ _

__Lestrade looked stunned._ _

__“You’ve just had the misfortune of meeting Mycroft Holmes. My brother.”_ _

__“That explains it, then.” Lestrade laughed. “ Who knew that ego was genetic?”_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he walked off to sign the _bloody_ form. Lestrade was shocked by the compliance. It made sense later, when he learned that Sherlock had been warned ahead of time. Not just advised that they were coming, but that refusal would put him under house arrest at Mycroft’s estate with no access to crime scenes again any time soon. Possibly ever. _ _

__Lestrade caught Sherlock’s arm as they were all getting ready to leave. “Dinner?”_ _

__“Don’t you think your wife would object? Late night with your ‘pet junkie,’ I believe she called me?”_ _

__Lestrade drew back his hand as if scalded._ _

__“If her business dinners were more straightforward, perhaps she would find yours less suspect. I know you think it noble to have another go with her, but you really deserve more.”_ _

__“You just think so, because I keep you in interesting cases,” Lestrade quipped._ _

__Sherlock grabbed his wrist, those piercing eyes boring into him as he said, “I mean it.”_ _

__Lestrade did nothing to break the hold as he answered, “Well then, why do you care if it bothers her? Dinner?” Christ, it sounded like he was flirting. He hadn’t meant it like that, but instead of some awkward backtrack, he just held Sherlock’s gaze mildly. He’d know the difference, right?_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, calculating as he released Lestrade’s arm. “Not tonight.”_ _

__Lestrade smiled. “Go on then. I’ll text you when anything truly interesting comes up.”_ _

__“I’m sure you will,“ Sherlock said, over his shoulder, as he left._ _

__

__Melissa really was bothered by Sherlock. They met in passing one day, and even with Sherlock on his best behaviour, she still had taken an instant dislike to him. It was clear she didn’t trust her husband around him. Greg had nothing but regret for confessing his relationship with Brad back in uni. Now she looked at every guy he was around differently._ _

__But, he thought with a sigh, a jealous partner was jealous no matter what._ _

__And she wasn’t wholly wrong. He _was _intrigued by Sherlock, just not like his wife thought. But _she_ was clearly attracted to him. She had never quite gotten that just because Greg had a thing with a bloke once that it didn’t mean he wanted all of them. Or even everyone _she_ fancied. Sherlock was gorgeous, no doubt, but in that angular, almost breakable way that reminded Lestrade of supermodels. Fragile and ethereal and completely not his type. Even aside from his abrasive personality. ___ _

____That intellect was dead sexy, though._ _ _ _

____So, he was friends with Sherlock, inasmuch as the boy had friends. But the affection he had for him felt protective, almost fatherly. And didn’t that feel strange to think._ _ _ _

_____Mycroft, though?_ There was something more than passing interesting there. Powerful. That gorgeous, sleek auburn hair he wanted to run his fingers through and traces of freckles on his face that made Greg want to investigate how far down they went. _ _ _ _

____But Sherlock was right. He certainly was trying with Melissa again. He took his vows seriously and he kept forgiving her, even if she didn’t know how to keep her promises. He tended to view her wandering like a sickness, he supposed, and he didn’t just agree to ‘for richer’ and ‘in health’._ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

A week had gone by, when he received a summons to Mycroft’s office. Just outside the door he shivered slightly, though it wasn’t cold. He knocked.

“Enter,” Mycroft called out and Greg turned the brass knob to press the heavy wooden door open.

“Ah, D.I. Lestrade,” Mycroft said, “So good of you to come.” He shook Greg’s hand, warmly and gestured to a leather armchair. When they were seated comfortably, Mycroft opened, “You’ve been working with my brother.”

“Not officially...” Greg hedged. He hoped there wasn’t going to be any sort of trouble. Suddenly he felt like he’d been called to the headmaster’s office.

“No. Not in an official capacity. Doubtful that he’d be cleared for that just yet, even if the department did go in for consultants. But he has been called in on three of your last seven cases.”

There was no point in denying it, so Greg merely hummed assent, nodding. 

“He’s hard to keep track of. With the difficulties of his rather recent past, I am sure you can see why I would prefer to know where is he.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?” was all he managed, biting back some retort about how he knew the percentage of cases Sherlock leant a hand in if he was so out of touch with him.

“If you were willing to report in, answer a few questions, I could see that it was worth your while.”

Greg gave him an incredulous stare. “Are you honestly trying to bribe me to spy on your brother? You’re practically the British Government itself to hear him talk. Why on earth would you need some policeman to do your work for you?”

Mycroft cracked a smile at that, there and gone so fast Greg almost thought that he imagined it. “Oh, you are far more than that.”

“Am I?”

“You keep him busy, distracted. You watch over him. You’ve given him a purpose to stay sober.”

Lestrade smiled, then, and relaxed, his fears vanishing. When you put it like that, it did rather seem that he had helped Sherlock nearly as much as the lad was helping him.

“And I worry about him.” Mycroft said, pausing slightly before emphasising, “Constantly.”

Greg considered for a moment, but shook his head. ”While I can see that, I am still going to have to decline. I don’t relish the thought of spying generally, but it certainly seems more foolhardy to spy on the second smartest man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Second smartest?” Mycroft raised his brow slightly. “Who was the first?”

“If you don’t know, perhaps I should revise that assessment, then,” Lestrade chuckled.

Mycroft’s lip quirked almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t quite smile. “Take that as a compliment, shall I? Thank you for considering, at the least. But if you won’t take my offer, you’ll at least stay for dinner?” Mycroft said, only a hint of question to the words. “You did drive all the way over here.” 

Greg found himself wanting to resist. After all, he wasn’t a puppet. However intimidating and powerful and sexy Mycroft might be. _Jesus. Sexy?_ Now that he’d thought it, he couldn’t exactly deny it. At the crime scene it had seemed like passing interest. Appreciation, really. But here he should call it what it was. Attraction. 

This _was_ dangerous. 

_But it was just dinner, right? What harm could that do?_ Lestrade nodded, setting aside his reservations. “Promise we don’t have to talk about your brother and that sounds delightful.”

“Whatever you wish, Gregory,” Mycroft said, taking his arm and leading him out onto a terrace.

Dinner was set, but at a nod from Mr. Holmes another chair, place setting, and salad course were brought brought out before Greg could even wonder where it all came from. 

\---

One dinner turned into several, but an occasional dinner didn’t mean anything. Not, really. Just acquaintances, or possibly friends. Just barely. 

But the rare dinner slowly became a monthly occurrence at least and then a standing lunch engagement as well. 

Over their pasta primavera one night, listening to Myc prattle away about current affairs and Sherlock’s antics, Lestrade smiled. He could see spending every night just like this. He wanted to. He allowed himself a moment to wonder, if he wasn’t married... 

“Greg?” Mycroft said, laying his hand over the detective’s. “Are you alright? It seemed I lost you for a moment.”

The warmth of his hand was comforting, Myc’s fingertips resting just over his wrist. It shouldn’t have been electric, but it was. Lestrade felt his pulse begin to race. 

Definitely. He definitely would have made a move by now if he wasn’t already taken. It was, _Christ _, it was everything. The entire way they were together.__

__Lestrade pulled his hand back. “I… I just remembered something I should have taken care of at the office. It can’t wait. I’m so sorry. I’ll call you, alright?”_ _

__He left quickly, trying to ignore the tinge of hurt in the corner of Mycroft’s eyes, as he said, “Of course, Gregory.”_ _

__That night, driving back to the tiny house he and Missy shared, it grew even clearer. Alone with his thoughts, Lestrade felt his throat close with the effort of holding back tears. He made a strangled sound and clenched his jaw. Myc was perfect for him. They fit together. They made each other warmer, better. And he was so terribly funny! Though often so droll you might miss it on first meet. Of course he was guarded in his daily life. A necessity with his job. It meant you could miss a lot about him. Greg had, at first. But the more time they spent time together, the more he could see through that façade. He was reserved where Greg was laid back, but they were both lonely. Their contrasts suited. He could see it now and the knowledge ached._ _

__Sure, it used to be easier with Missy, before all the bills and house payments, before they were fighting over chores and whether to try for kids. All the daily things that have a way of wearing down the passion, the sweetness, but it was so much more than that. They were too young, impulsive. They had only been together a year when they got married._ _

__But what could he do? He’d already made his promises._ _

__He couldn’t see Mycroft again. Not for awhile. Not until things were right at home._ _


	3. Chapter 3

The Olsen case had wrapped on time for once, the murderer in lock up and the paperwork wrapped up long before dinner. Melissa was used to him either working late or grabbing a pint after. Sometimes both. So he certainly had time before he’d be expected. He felt bad for the way he had been avoiding Myc and called him up. As it turned out, he actually had time for a drink and they met up just after 5. 

It should have been strange after the month of silence, but it wasn’t. Slightly more formal, perhaps, but far from awkward. 

“Sorry things have been so hectic lately.”

“Not at all. I certainly understand how things can get... harried.”

They chatted on about work and politics, busy days and sleepless nights. Everything just flowed. Their easy banter so starkly different from anything else in Greg’s world. One drink turned into three and nibbles. 

As the pub got more and more crowded, they leaned closer to one another, their chat feeling more intimate by the moment. Suddenly, Greg felt warm, the energy between them fairly crackling until he could only think of Myc’s lips on him, could almost feel it. 

It was Mycroft who pulled away, before anything untoward happened. “Much as I love our time together, won’t Melissa be expecting you?”

Greg cleared his throat, pointedly checking his watch. While she certainly wouldn’t be looking for him with the way work had run lately, it would have been time if things hadn’t been so out of sorts for the past few months. “You’re right. Wouldn’t do to keep her waiting. Hard enough to be a DI’s wife, I suppose.” He smiled wanly.

“I’ll call you next week. Maybe we can do lunch if you aren’t in the midst of anything pressing.”

“I’d like that,” Greg said and went off to settle his tab.

 

Greg fretted as he walked to his car. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He knew what almost happened, what he wanted. But things had been better at home, even with the late nights. Sure, he and Missy had been busy, but they had been doing so well.

Guilt goading him, he swung by a florist and picked up a bouquet on the way home. A dozen red roses might not be original, but she always loved them and maybe if he found some of the sweetness they had at first, it would help. 

It was half seven when he walked in. She clearly hadn’t expected him home just yet. There was no sign of her downstairs, and certainly no dinner, but that was hardly new. Who made a full dinner to sit and get cold when no one would be home to eat it until 9 or worse. She might even have gone out with the girls, but in that case usually left a note on the counter.

As he climbed the stairs he heard her laugh and smiled to himself. She was in a good mood, then. Perhaps she was on the phone and his mind briefly flashed to the times years ago where he had petted and teased and kissed every time she was on the phone until she would hang up and they’d fall into bed. 

When he reached the bedroom door, three things happened at once, he turned the knob, she laughed again, more breathless this time, and a man’s voice said, “Like that, baby?”

Greg hardly remembered the flash of naked limbs tangled in his sheets, as the door swung open, but he could still hear the shattering of glass as the vase broke, echoing in his ears as he ran back down the stairs. He didn’t pause over the leaves and petals torn free, scattering. He didn’t make a move to stop the water running over the hardwood floor and soaking into the rug. He just tore down the stairs and out the door, back to his car. He started it and backed out the driveway without a thought to where he was going or what he would do. 

His phone rang and rang. He didn’t pick up. This was it, finally crashing down. He couldn’t do this anymore! He didn’t want another screaming fight. Didn’t want more counselling on forgiveness and the nature of sins. Not again.

What he did want, more than anything, was to call Myc. To tell him that his marriage was over, and if he was completely honest with himself, he wanted to fall into his bed, if he’d have him. This wasn’t just Melissa anymore, wasn’t just her problem. He would probably keep forgiving her, but knowing that he wanted to leave, too, what is honestly the point? Making each other miserable trying to ‘make this work’? It _didn’t_ work. It hadn’t in years. Whatever promises had been made weren't enough to hold this together. 

After the fourth call, he turned the damn thing off, barely resisting the urge to throw it out the window and run over it. 

If he kept driving he’d end up at Myc’s. And then what? Even if he’d have him, even if that spark he felt was real, starting something now would be a disaster.

Instead, Greg ran to his office. There was always some kind of filing, paperwork, cold case. Anything to get his mind off this mess of a life. 

By the time he had cleared old paperwork and reorganized the supplies on his desk three times, he’d pulled out a cold case but he’d read the same line six times without making any sense of it. 

He had to do something. Slowly he typed in a search he never had in all of their struggles. Opening the first of the results for ‘grounds for annulment,’ he began to read, clicking link after link until he was exhausted.

He leant back in his chair, tipping his head back over the headrest, the pressure at the base of his skull helping ease the tension headache that had been building since he’d fled the house. He propped his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes, reviewing all that he’d seen and read. When they’d married, there was the intention of permanence, presumably on both of their parts, and hard to prove otherwise. They’d both been of sound mind and maturity enough to understand their duties and the commitment they were making. It was the third and fourth points that stuck. Exclusivity and Openness. 

He couldn’t exactly claim they had a “unity that is not divided, nor shared by others,” as the church put it. From the very beginning if Sherlock was to be believed. How he could possibly know, Lestrade had no clue, but it was Sherlock. He was generally right. He knew before, but it was different having actually seen her in the act. In their bed no less.

Openness was just as laughable. Possessing a truthful character? Hardly. She’d been lying about everything from where she was and who she was with, what they were doing. Of course the other layer was broken as well, not that he’d hold her to it. An openness to any children God would bless them with. Her continued insistence on birth control blocked that possibility. He wasn’t in the dark ages. He granted she should have that right, but the Catholic Church would see that alone as grounds.

Greg sat up again, but without any decisive course of action, simply staring at his computer screen, longer than he would care to admit, as the implications rolled over him. Not only was his marriage ending, he was never _really_ married. Not in the sense he thought. Somehow, he couldn’t decide whether that was freeing or utterly devastating.

He blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and picked up the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

Father Mulcahy had known Greg since he was a boy. He’d given him first communion, he’d officiated the wedding and helped Melissa and him through counselling more than once. He answered Lestrade’s call immediately, ready with an empathetic ear. 

When Lestrade told him about that night, he listened with the usual kindness before saying, “I’ve never granted an annulment lightly. I’ve rarely had to grant one at all. But, in this case it is more than warranted.” 

Greg didn’t know what to that, just sighed. He had half expected the good father to talk him out of it.

Father Mulcahy continued gently, “Greg, you have had the patience of Job with this woman. You have practiced every technique I have ever given you and I know you’ve prayed. I’ve prayed with you and for both of you. You have given this more than a fair try. You have honored your promise before God. She continues not to. That isn’t a marriage. I can submit the petition, but I’ll need you to sign. Can you come by tomorrow afternoon?”

“Of course, Father. Thank you.” Greg felt hollow. There had been pain initially, and he knew might feel something like relief later, but for now? He just felt gutted, an emptiness that threatened to swallow him. 

He tried to imagine going back to the house, confronting Melissa. Would it be cathartic to scream, to vent every grievance? His anger was justified, he knew that down to the ground, but when he tried to imagine it, really think about going through with it, and he just felt tired. 

Not missed a-few-hours-of-sleep tired. 

Not spent-too-long-chasing-a-fit-burglar-down-back-alleys tired.

No, this was a penetrating, absolute, bone tired, like the deep exhaustion that had settled over him at the end of the triple homicide last spring. He’d been up nearly seventy two hours in the pouring rain, following one lead after another, until they finally caught the bastard. 

He knew he needed to sleep. His mum always said that anything looked better in the morning. He wasn’t sure this would, but it certainly wasn’t going to look any better without it. He couldn’t face going anywhere else. He didn’t want to bug a friend or even to rent a room somewhere. And he certainly wasn’t going home. Not tonight and maybe not ever again. He kipped on one of the cots in the back that he used to catch a quick nap when he had to pull a double. His back would tell him all about it in the morning, but it would have to do. 

It was hard to believe that in three weeks or so, his marriage would be found completely invalid. All the grief, all the hurt and tears over what? An illusion?

He filed for divorce the next day. The annulment was more important to him, but not legally binding. Well, more accurately, dividing. 

In the end, Melissa didn’t protest, didn’t contest anything or justify herself. She barely met his eyes when they came to the office. Father Mulcahy had agreed to meet them there and take care of everything at once. Melissa wouldn’t look at him at all. She signed immediately, her eyes darting to the door, like a trapped animal looking for escape throughout the entire 20 minutes. 

They had agreed to sell the house. There was no way Greg could live there knowing that she’d brought her affairs into their bed. The whole place was more to her taste anyway. She wouldn’t keep it and in fact insisted they split it. He’d have to go back soon and pack up his things, but hadn’t been able to face it just yet. 

It was awkward, but finished at last.

On his way home, Greg stopped at a clinic on impulse. Hadn’t been tested since before their marriage. Who could know how many affairs there had been or how safe she’d been? Lord knew he hadn’t always been perfect using protection with her, but she was on the pill. He hadn’t thought they needed protection from anything, but the kids they didn’t want yet. Well, that she didn’t want at all. They’d been married for Christsakes. It should have been fine. But it wasn’t and now he needed to know he wasn’t sick. 

It wasn’t even a week later when he held the envelope, just staring at it for a few minutes, heart pounding. He opened it and still just held the printout, not quite ready to look. He had put it out of his mind until the results came in. He steeled himself. He needed to know. It was important. 

He didn’t feel ready. 

_Most things are treatable. It’s better to know._

He took a breath, blew it out and unfolded the paper. 

Negative. He sighed with relief as he read down the list. He was fine. He didn’t realize consciously that this had been weighing on him in the back of his mind, probably since the first time he’d caught her cheating. He felt lighter, almost giddy with the relief of it. 

With the paperwork done and now these results, he was in the mood to celebrate. And maybe, just maybe, find out how Mycroft felt.

**

Greg picked up the phone and dialed. He held his breath as the phone rang. It frequently took some time. He might even have to leave a voicemail. 

“Hello.”

“Hi Mycroft.”

“Gregory, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Greg swallowed, “I was wondering if you might want to go out soon. I’m sure you’re busy tonight, but maybe you’d have some time this week. We could just grab lunch if that’s better. I just want to, um, celebrate a bit. The divorce is final and...”

“Hold on just a moment.” Greg could hear a muffled whispering between Mycroft and Anthea. “How fortuitous. I’ve just been informed of an opening in my scheduled. A cancellation from the Syrian Ambassador and Anthea has not yet called about changing our reservations. You should join me for dinner.”

Greg grinned to himself as he agreed and jotted down the time and location. As soon as they hung up he started going through his closet trying to figure out what on earth to wear. He only really had one suit. Charcoal fit most occasions well enough. It was off the rack, but at least tailored to suit him. The white shirt was classic, but the patterned teal tie a bit bold. He couldn’t hope to complete with the figure Mycroft cut but he hoped he looked sharp enough. 

Four hours later, he was shaved and polished and had put in at least as much effort as a stereotypical teenage girl. He felt more than a little ridiculous about that up until the moment Mycroft laid eyes on him, a small smile curving around the edges of his lips as he took Greg in. And though he reigned it in as quickly as it appeared, Greg hadn’t missed the way Mycroft’s beautiful blue eyes deepened with a hunger that had nothing to do with the fine dinner they were ready to enjoy. 

“Good evening, Gregory. I’m so glad you could join me.”

“Glad you had the time. I know how busy we can get. You especially.” 

The maître d greeted Mr. Holmes and had them shown immediately to a small private dining room with a large glass window, from which they could see the establishment’s live band and small dance floor. 

A bottle of wine was already waiting and they presented My with a taste. The waiter poured it for both of them at Mycroft’s nod of approval.

As the staff hurried away from the table My turned to Greg, “I hope you don’t mind a set menu. It was ordered ahead.”

Greg smiled. “Just one less thing to think about.”

Mycroft raised his glass, “To your freedom. May you finally find someone who appreciates you.”

Greg tipped his to clink against Mycroft’s and took a sip. He gave a soft smile as he said, “I’m hoping I have.”

Mycroft had just taken a sip himself, and coughed lightly nearly choking. Greg hoped his boldness was unexpected, rather than unwelcome. 

He was relieved when Mycroft smiled back. 

“Oh, and who is she?” Mycroft asked neutrally, clearly needing to hear Greg’s confirmation.

“ _He’s_ a great friend who I’m very much hoping is interested in being more than that. I’m not sure how I should go about asking him, though.” Greg said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, that depends. If you are just interested in getting him in bed, you could go out for drinks, use a little liquid courage, and ask. If you want something more than that, I generally think a fine dinner sets the tone.” Mycroft said with a smile, swirling his wine slightly in the glass before taking a sip.

Greg looked away, out the window. From their table they could see couples twirling to a lively waltz.

“This band plays well,” Greg remarked, in his feeble attempt at both changing the subject and hiding his nerves. In the subsequent pause where Mycroft merely arched an eyebrow Greg downed the rest of his glass before mumbling, “Would you like to dance?”

“Oh, I think we’ve already been dancing for quite a long time.” Mycroft said with a smug smirk that still lit up in his eyes. “But, yes, Gregory. I’d love to.”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand, leading them to the floor. 

And after that, they never really did stop dancing.


End file.
